


Written in Ink

by TeamGwenee



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, game of thrones
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-10-11 08:22:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17443355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeamGwenee/pseuds/TeamGwenee
Summary: Mr Jaime Lannister thought that a tedious business trip North could be nothing but a bore. A book left on a train seat changes all that.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [justme (silver_spring)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silver_spring/gifts), [hardlyfatal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardlyfatal/gifts).



The North, with its stunning landscapes and endless forests was one of Westeros’s greatest Natural Wonders, according to people who ought to know about those sorts of things. But to Mr Jaime Lannister esquire, it was just one pine tree after another. He had been stuck on the bloody train for the best part of five hours now, and that was after suffering a seven hour journey the day before. His journey had thankfully been broken up by a night in a hotel, one about as nice as any institution could get once you have passed the Neck. But whatever comforts that had brought him had faded from vies as his train sped from the station.

 It was that bloody Tyrion who booked him onto the train, instead of just sending along like Mr Frey of Payne like he suggested. As far as Mr Lannister was concerned, this sort of work, these early negotiations, was beneath him. For all they knew, Eddard Stark had no intention of doing business with them. Yet on Stark’s orders, who had grumbled something about ‘dealing with him face to face’ and ‘refusing to do business with cowards hiding behind lackeys’, Jaime found himself being rattled around within his carriage until it felt as though his bones were about to shatter within his skin.

Seven knew the Righteous with an illuminated ‘R’ Ned Stark scorned the idea of working with the vile Lannisters enough as it was. If they were going to have any hope of doing business with him, concessions had to be made. Even if it meant doing the work better suited for a drudge.

Jaime just thanked his lucky stars he hadn’t been required to don a muslin apron and pass around sandwiches and cakes.

  _Yet._

Jaime looked contemptuously around the carriage. Apparently, this was first class. He shuddered to think of the conditions his poor manservant was managing in second class. The food had been a _dequate,_ if he was feeling generous, and the furnishings held little beauty or taste. And clearly no one had thought to tidy it, for on his arrival he had been dismayed to see that another person’s belongings had been left behind. A book, old with peeling leather binding and yellow pages.

As a rule, Jaime did not care for reading. But as it grew steadily obvious that the _thrilling_ display of snow and pine trees was not about to end, he found himself picking up the book and flipping the pages with disinterest. The pint was small, and dense, making Jaime’s already fogged brain ache.

He blinked, as larger, clearly print appeared and vanished before him. He turned to pages back, to see that someone had scribbled in the margins.

**_‘I warrant that it was a man who wrote this.’_ **

Jaime frowned and squinted at the page. It was the tale of Azor Ahai, and his ill-fated wife Nissa Nissa. The author relayed how Azor Ahai summoned his bride forth and plunged his blade within her chest, causing her to cry out in ‘ecstasy’. It was in reference to the word ‘ecstasy’ that was the source of the previous owner’s scepticism.

Despite himself, he laughed.

Checking the dull gold lettering, he found himself in ownership of collection of Ancient Mythology and legends. A more interesting subject than most, he had to admit. But what truly caught his interest now, was the clear bold lettering gracing every few pages. On the legend of Brave Danny Flint, they had questioned whether so much detail had been necessary in relaying the grisly details of her unfortunate demise, and truly seemed to find issue with the fact that it was the breaking of guest right that brought about the Rat Cook’s punishment, and less the murder of an innocent boy in itself. She; he presumed it was a she, especially had a lot to say about the legends of the Stormlands, such as questioning why the Storm God could not simply return his daughter’s lost immortality, on account of being a God.

Jaime was rather nervous of reading the lady’s no doubt scathing critique of the legends of the Westerlands, which had been his childhood bed time stories.

On finally reaching his pages, he took one look at the ink littering the pages and pulled out a pen. Some things could not be left unchallenged.

#

It was dark by the time Jaime finally reached the station at Wintertown, but then that damned country seemed to receive precious few hours of sunlight. A grim looking coach was waiting for him and Peck, one that creaked and rattled as it conveyed them to Winterfell. Stark and his hatchet-faced wife stood like spectres in the Great Hall, there to greet him with all the warmth of an icicle down his back. On the stairs, the three youngest of their brats peered through the bars. Clearly their Governess had done a poor job of instilling basic manners into the imps.

“Bran, Rickon!” Catelyn Stark called out, “To bed with you. Arya, young ladies do _not_ stare at strangers.”

The two boys ran off happily enough, sniggering, the plain faced girl stopping off after them. Catelyn Stark stuck Jaime with a gimlet eye, daring him to comment. Jaime smiled.

“Charming children, Mrs Stark,” he said blithely. “Most charming.”

#

At dinner that evening they were joined with the elder son and daughter, Stark’s sullen nephew, and the family’s frightfully ugly Governess.

“Miss Tarth has only recently joined our service,” Mrs Stark told him. “After her poor father’s passing.”

“My condolences Miss Tarth.” Jaime bowed at the beast in black satin. “And how are you finding life as a Governess?”

Mrs Stark glared at him, but Miss Tarth looked him straight in the eye, cool and unflustered.

“I find it suits me well,” she said simply, taking her seat.

“Miss Tarth is excellent with the children.” Catelyn Stark smiled warmly at her from across the candlelit table. “They adore her, and her lessons are always so interesting. I have never seen Arya so devoted to her studies.”

“Well that’s jolly excellent,” Jaime drawled, already losing interest in the conversation. Still, the longer he spoke to the Governess, the longer before he had to begin sucking up to Stark. “What is your favourite subject?”

“Histories mostly,” Miss Tarth replied promptly. “The legends and the songs.”

This pricked Jaime’s interest. “Oh yes?” he asked. “Such as Azor Ahai, and his Nissa Nissa?”

Frown lines appeared on Miss Tarth’s pale brow. “Yes, but I care little for that so-called hero. And as for Nissa Nissa crying out in ‘ecstasy’ as her own husband murdered her.” She snorted. “I warrant a man wrote that.”


	2. Chapter 2

Brienne was not one moved to tears often. For all that her father’s death cut her deeply, the business of vacating their house, selling their furniture and moving North occupied her enough to keep her mind fixed from her grief.

 The long train ride North had been a danger, snugly ensconced in the first-class carriage the Starks had kindly provided for her, but she fixed herself on her books, planning lessons for her future charges. She only allowed herself some sentimentality when she began reading her old book of Myths and Legends, which her father had passed down to her from his school days, along with his irreverent habit of scribbling in the margins. She fell asleep over that peeling, yellow book, only to be awoken hours later at Wintertown Station. She was brusquely shaken awake and conveyed to a carriage which deposited her half-asleep outside Winterfell’s rusting gate. There, lost, cold and lonely in the night, she realised she had left her father’s book on the train.

And only then did she cry.

#

With a face such as her own, the prospect of becoming a Governess held for Brienne less horror than it might have done for another maid. A poorer girl whose face was only bordered plainness lived in fear at the mere word ‘Governess’, for she also possessed the cruel and sweet gift of hope. There were days, when her skin was clear, and eyes were bright and the well-dressed gentleman on the street gave her a smile, that she saw a chance of an escape from drudgery and let herself imagine a future of matrimonial bliss.

Brienne knew no such state. If there was ever a time when she lived in such ignorance as to think she could become a bride, it was at an age where she stilled hoped to be a knight. Instead of a white gown, she saw a white steed. And it was the shine of her armour and Valyrian steel sword, not the shine of an engagement ring. That is not to say that, during the cold Northern nights following her father’s death, that she did not mourn her empty bed. But the work of a Governess itself was not a burden. Teaching interested her, it challenged her, and the Stark children were dear.

Especially Arya.

“Is it really not so bad being a Governess?” Arya demanded in her typical forthright manner, having lingered by Brienne’s side on their customary afternoon walk.

Wrapped up tightly against the brisk wind, Brienne managed a smile for the wild haired, red cheeked imp in a pinafore.

“There are worse fates,” Brienne said. “Why do you ask?”

“Sansa and her friend Jeyne keep telling me that I am going to end up as a Governess one day,” Arya admitted, kicking a stone with her boot. “Because no husband would ever want me. But then, with my sewing I also run the risk of no one wanting to hire me either. I might have to settle for being a teacher at a school instead.”

Brienne scowled. “There is no shame at teaching at a school,” she said firmly. “No more than there is in being a Governess. Sharing knowledge and guiding the young is a most useful pursuit.”

Arya brightened, looking over her shoulder in case her brothers or wretched sister was listening.

“In fact, I was thinking that I wouldn’t mind being a teacher,” she confided in Brienne furtively. “But at my own school, for poor girls as well as rich. But my girls will be taught to fence and row and ride, as well be doctors and lawyers and writers. Not just how to sew and paint watercolours.”

“Very useful skill, sewing,” Brienne said mildly, a small smile spreading over her face at Arya’s vision.

“Oh, I suppose I can have that taught too,” Arya said flippantly, “And watercolours. But I expect my girls to actually try to excel, to actually try and make something worthwhile of their life. Not just make themselves pleasing to a future husband.”

“It’s a good idea,” Brienne told Arya, “Will you have a position open for me when the time comes?”

Arya skipped in her attempt to keep up with Brienne’s long stride. “Definitely!” Arya chirped. “You can be my partner. Truly. Sansa and I are both meant to have a settlement on our marriage, but when I come of age, I will ask Father to let me use it to buy a school. By then, you will have practise as a teacher and made contacts for both employees and students. Rich families will hear my name and send their daughters, paying ludicrous fees for the honour of being taught by a Stark, and we can use the money to take on the poor and destitute.”

Brienne looked down on Arya’s shining face, her heart warming at the young girl’s vision.

“Well?” Arya demanded, “Do we have a plan.” Brienne took Arya’s small hand in hers and shook it firmly. “We most certainly do,” she vowed solemnly.

Arya beamed, grey eyes sparkling like quicksilver. “Good. And during every sewing lesson, and every time Sansa and Jeyne tease me, I will hold onto that.”

“And I will hold onto that during dinner,” Brienne sighed. “We are dining with the ‘odious Mr Lannister’ tonight, and I shall need something to keep me from reaching for my fish fork.” She looked over her shoulder, checking to be sure that they were far from view of the house. “Alright, no one can see us now. Race to the springs?”

#

Brienne was ever grateful for Catelyn Stark’s insistence that Brienne join the family for dinner and other aspects of their family life, such as evenings in the Library and tea in the Drawing Room, which rescued her from the torturous limbo other Governesses found themselves condemned to. But on nights such as these, Brienne rather wished she was employed by more traditional families who preferred to banish their Governesses to decay into dust inside their tiny rooms.

Evenings spent entertaining were nothing less than the seventh layer of Hell for our heroine, sat there trying not to rise to pitying looks and cutting jibes of the guests who saw ugly and heard Governess and felt content to label her as sub-human.  

Jaime Lannister seemed to fit this mould, until Brienne mentioned her love for mythology, at which point Mr Lannister began quizzing her in a manner that put Brienne in mind of certain Gentlemen whom, on hearing of a lady’s passion, begin interrogating them in the hopes of trapping them and proving their own superiority. Brienne prepared herself to put her defences up, only to be caught short when Mr Lannister truly listened to her opinions, and reasonably provided his own. He truly listened to her points, agreed and gave her credit on a well-made argument, and never once made accusations on the tone of her voice or the passion of her argument.

So much so that when time came for the ladies to depart for the Drawing Room, whilst Mr Stark and Mr Lannister talked business over port, Brienne found herself lingering in the doorway, looking over her shoulder and wondering at the flutter that Jaime Lannister’s cut-glass profile caught in the candlelight brought about in her stomach.


	3. Chapter 3

 “Miss Tarth!”

Brienne turned on her heels, starting and dropping her stack of textbooks to the ground. Jaime Lannister tipped her a bow and bent to his knees.

“Allow me to help you Madam,” he said courteously, something wicked burning within his green eyes.

Brienne nodded dumbly, jerking out her arms to collect the books, only for Mr Lannister to keep them safe in his arms.

“Where to Miss Tarth?” he enquired cheerfully.

“The schoolroom, thank you,” Brienne said uneasily, nodding to the door at the end of the hall.

“Daeron the Second’s Conquest of Done,” Mr Lannister read out, looking at the top book. “Fascinating stuff. Quite an achievement for a fourteen-year-old.”

“A wasteful and devastating war raged on the grounds of arrogance and glory seems well within the expectations of a foolish boy with more power than sense,” Brienne said firmly, her irritation at the long dead king overcoming her knowledge of the heart stopping proximity of Mr Lannister’s chiselled chin.

“Not an admirer,” Jaime Lannister remarked. “What think you of the others? Jahaerys the Conciliator?”

“A good king, a mediocre father,” Brienne surmised.

Mr Lannister chuckled. “I warrant the Princesses Daella, Viserra and Saera would hold with that. What of Baelor? Pious man, wretched brother?”

Here Brienne laughed. Delighted at having so moved the stern-faced Governess, Jaime lingered for a moment to take in the sparkle of Miss Tarth’s blue eyes.

“Here is where I leave you,” he said regretfully as they reached the Schoolroom door. “My business with Stark is done and I am departing for King’s Landing anon.”

With that he bowed, pushed the books into Brienne’s hands, and left.

Feeling oddly grieved, Brienne entered into the schoolroom and set down the books. Sorting through the pile to ensure none was missing, she paused as she discovered a book that was not there before. Old leather and smelling of cosy evenings with her father, Brienne brought up her book of Myths and Legends, hands trembling. Flicking through the pages she frowned on confusion on discovering new writing resting beside her own.

**_‘I will take your word on the matter of Stormlands’ myths, but your views on Clever Lann cannot remain uncontested!’_ **

_~Five Years Later~_

It had been many years since Miss Brienne Tarth had last seen Mr Jaime Lannister, but she knew his handwriting within moments of slicing open the envelope. She had seen the same script near every day for the last five years, the elegant loops and curves married to her own no-nonsense letters. She had never thought to hear from the man again, for his dealings with the Starks had come to nothing and as a Governess, she moved in a circle vastly different to Mr Lannister’s sparkling, cosmopolitan world.

So many years had passed, and yet the mere memory of the man’s rakish smile and glittering green eyes brought about the same troublesome flutter that she had experienced as a tender-aged girl mourning her father’s death. Brienne chided herself for such unwelcome feelings. She was now a grown woman, whose need for respectability could not be paralleled.

For she had opened the school, she and Arya. Having pleaded, cajoled and persuaded her mother and father into providing her inheritance, Arya was the main funder of their enterprise, but as predicted Brienne’s experience and contacts had proved invaluable.

It was Mrs Stark who had been first to see the promise in Brienne and Arya’s venture. Traditionally the more malleable of the two, Arya had expected her father to be swayed first. But on this, his little girl’s future, he had been surprisingly reluctant. In the end, it was only Catelyn’s belated but wholehearted support that won his approval.

Thus accomplished, Catelyn took the girl’s scheme to heart, as she did with all worthy causes, and helped settle the purchase of suitable premises, a large manor house in need of some renovation, but surrounded by beautiful land and with the nearest village not too difficult to access. That done, she set about helping the girls find good builders, trained staff and eventually, pupils. Through her connections with numerous charities, Catelyn Stark sourced many a promising young girl for whom a true education had once been nought but a dream, whilst her name and place in society also scrounged up some rather more privileged pupils who, along with their tuck boxes and tennis, rackets brought along some much-needed capital.

Truthfully, had it not been for Catelyn Stark throwing her weight behind the project, Brienne suspected she and Arya may have stumbled on the first hurdle. Or at least have been forced to severely limit themselves in their plans. They needed Mrs Stark’s reputation and good name to bring about funders and paying students, for their vision of a perfect school greatly differed from most parents.

As it was, Brienne and Arya counted themselves as blessed and threw themselves into arranging the school’s syllabus. Finding teachers to live up to these expectations was difficult, but more than one woman whose intelligence had been at risk of being left to rust jumped at the chance to put their gifts to use, and so the girls found themselves with a eclectic but enthusiastic and passionate staff.

There was the beautiful Daenerys Targaryen, whose once great family had since been forced to make their own living. She had taken charge of the sciences, with a particular emphasis for chemistry and generally blowing things up. Her dear friend, Missandei Grey joined her as language mistress. Following them was Mirri Maz Duur, providing the girls training in nursing (with a bit of witchcraft on the side.)

Hardy Yara Greyjoy took on riding, rowing, sailing and swimming, briskly leading packs of shivering girls on expeditions into the wood to submerge themselves in the icy streams and lakes and dragging them out of bed for early morning rides. The caustic Madame Olenna Tyrell, once a famous actress, took on English, Art and Drama, whilst Meera Reed became Geography mistress. Young Gilly Craster had approached the school, offering to provide classes on wilderness survival in return for an education herself, a suggestion Brienne and Arya had not initially thought of but accepted eagerly. Their staff was rounded out with occasional guest lectures on geology from Mya Stone. Arya, having always shown an aptitude for maths and truly pushing herself to exceed in her final years of education, became Maths mistress, while Brienne threw herself into teaching her beloved histories.

Brienne had also hoped to become a fencing instructor, having been taught by her father. But alas her duties as joint Headmistress and History teacher allowed little time for her to take on much else, and fencing lessons would have to wait. Nevertheless, in the year since opening the school began to flourish, even if it’s challenging and unconventional syllabus drove away the more traditional and esteemed families. For many families took one look at the demanding, somewhat eclectic and outright _masculine_ syllabus and spat in disgust, opting instead to pack off their girls to either freeze in ghastly institutions run by the Septas, or cosy Seminaries run by genteel widows in their front Drawing Rooms.

As such, it was with some incredulity that had Brienne receive the esteemed Jaime Lannister’s letter, and write back accepting his request to a meeting to discuss the future of his niece’s education. Picking up her pen with far too much haste, Brienne wrote her acquiescence to meeting. Usually, Arya would join Brienne in meetings with the parents of prospective students, but in this instance, Brienne felt no need to trouble her.


	4. Chapter 4

Jaime thanked the Seven, the Old Gods, the Red God and the Drowned God (with Tyrion drinking a toast to the sixteen breasted fertility Goddess) that Joffrey had come of age when his mother was declared unfit and Myrcella and Tommen came into Jaime’s care. The vile, wretched boy had joined an expedition to travel Essos and hopefully stay there. The family as a whole was better off far away from the odious youth. With him safely on another continent, Jaime and Tyrion could divert their efforts away from keeping Joffrey off the gallows, and instead focus on the more mundane issue of education.

Tommen had proved a concern. A bright boy, but gentle and unsuited for the rough and rigorous education that Jaime and Tyrion’s father had subjected them to. Eventually, they decided against a boarding school and found an amiable young tutor by name of Samwell Tarly. The plan had been for Tommen and Myrcella to share him, but their headstrong niece had designs of quite a different nature.

“School?” Tyrion repeated incredulously, “Why would you want to go to school? Terrible places.”

Jaime nodded in agreement. “Desolate, soulless institutions where hopes go to die.”

Myrcella sat before them, pretty as a china doll in her muslin dress and with her pink cheeks and golden curls. Her cherry lips were set in a firm, straight line and her chin was proudly tilted.

“Not this one,” she insisted. “It’s a splendid place.” “How did you come to hear of it?” Jaime asked curiously.

“Mr Tarly’s father wrote a scathing piece about it in the Mail,” Myrcella replied promptly.

“Randyll Tarly disapproves?” Tyrion raised an eyebrow. “Well, that’s one in argument in its favour.”

Myrcella handed said article of condemnation over to Jaime, who sat beside Tyrion on the sofa and put on his reading glasses, frowning sceptically over the article. As they read, Tyrion’s acid green eyes filled with mirth.

 _“A farce of a school, founded on the absurd belief that a woman’s education should be equal to that of men, recklessly encouraging pursuits wholly unnatural to the female sex, ignoring all scientific evidence conclusively proving the danger that such acts have on the health of young ladies, yet another sign of the moral decay in our once great country,”_ Tyrion read out, a smile twitching at his lips.

Jaime scanned the paper, eyes narrowing in thought. “The Queen Nymeria Academy, Head Mistresses, Miss Arya Stark and Miss Brienne Tarth.” He smiled at Tyrion. “Well, I see no harm in investigating.”

~

She was just as ugly as he remembered. Just as tall and broad and blue eyed. Stood there in a simple dress in the sun-splashed classroom, she waited expectantly for Jaime to speak.

“I wonder if you remember me?” He smiled as she gripped his hand in her own. “We met at Winterfell a few years back.”

“Indeed, I do.” Miss Tarth nodded primly.

“In service to the Starks. I suppose that is where you and Miss Stark began making grand plans for the future of female education,” Jaime said.

Miss Brienne Tarth frowned at him suspiciously, wondering if man was mocking her. “The same day we met, as it happens.”

Jaime beamed. “I do hope I provided some inspiration.”

“None whatsoever,” Brienne Tarth said firmly, swiftly putting the proud gentleman in his place. “Unless it was to provide young girls with opportunities other than marrying odious gentlemen such as yourself.”

If anything, Jaime’s smile only widened. Such caustic manners spoke well of the woman he was considering entrusting his niece’s upbringing to. It was Lannister nature to speak in insults and jibes, and Myrcella was no different. She needed to be encouraged, not suppressed.

“Opportunities for my niece is exactly what I wish for her.” Jaime thrust his hands into his waistcoat pockets and leaned against a desk in a well-rehearsed debonair manner. “She’s a bright girl, my Myrcella, brighter than her brothers. I know she has so much to offer if challenged. And she knows it as well. This whole idea is her notion.”

“She sounds like an enterprising girl,” Miss Tarth noted with a smile.

Jaime beamed proudly. “She truly is he,” he said warmly. “I wish I had her nerve. When I was young, I had little mind for learning, instead larked around in my classes and wasted every opportunity I had to make something of myself. All I cared about was fencing, it was the only thing I could be bothered to excel at. At eighteen I accepted a place in my father’s office, and I’ve been there since.”

“What is your father’s work?” Miss Tarth asked, curious to find out what job brought about such a despondent tone in this charming man’s voice.

Jaime shrugged and smiled ruefully. “Not sure, something to do with boats and ports. Isn’t everything these days?”

“How is it that you have worked for your father all these years and still do not know what your work is?” Miss Tarth demanded incredulously.

“With my looks, it was agreed by all that I was most useful in the socializing aspect,” Jaime explained, “I turned up at parties and dinners and meetings with desirable acquaintances, smiled and repeated the script my brother arranged for me.” Jaime stared around the classroom, a hint of longing in his green eyes.

“Perhaps it is time for a change?” Miss Tarth suggested.

“Perhaps,” Jaime agreed, “But it’s all I know. And it’s nothing like you are doing here,” he mused. “It’s not meaningful. It won’t help people and make a change. While you,” Jaime said, turning to face with Miss Tarth, “You, when we first met, was a penniless Governess with scarce a friend in a world. Now you are giving young girls of all class a chance to learn things, to discover things and challenge themselves in ways they would never have dreamed of. Sciences, literature, _wilderness_ _survival,_ even fencing from what I hear.”

“Well, we hope to arrange fencing lessons,” Brienne admitted honestly, “But we are having difficulty finding a suitable instructor.”

“That is a pity,” Jaime said, “It’s a delightful sport. I only wish there was something I could do to-”

It was unclear just who came up with the idea first. Had there been a time difference it could only have been by seconds, for a mutual understanding lit up their eyes and brought a smile to their lips within mere moments of each other.

A jubilant Jaime returned home to his townhouse, filling his dear niece with delight on informing her that she was to attend Queen Nymeria’s Academy for Young Ladies. And then significantly decreasing said delight when informing her that he would be joining her.


	5. Chapter 5

In her frills and pearls and bonnet all over in ribbons and flowers, Miss Sansa Stark Stood amongst the wooden desks and benches like a rose blooming between the cracks of a floorboard. Her arrival at the school caused quite a stir, with curious school girls leaning out of their windows to watch her emerge form her handsome carriage, decked in all her finery. For here was what all the society papers had described as ‘the pinnacle of grace and beauty’, a ‘sparkling emblem of cultured society’.

From a distance, they were spared the sight of the pout on her ruby lips as she eyed the grey stone building with distaste. She stepped through the front door, nothing the brusque maid in place of a footman, and the spartan décor of the entrance hall. Irritated that neither of the were present to greet her, she followed the maid down the narrow corridors to find Arya in her classroom, writing formulas onto the chalkboard.

 Sansa’s little sister was now a grown woman, one in charge of the welfare of an entire school at that. Her skirts were long, and her hair was up, she was covered in chalk dust and strands of brown hair escaped from her hair pins with ease. Even now she looked like nothing more than an unruly schoolgirl herself, trying to escape from her sewing lessons.

“Take a seat,” Arya ordered Sansa, grey eyes fixed on the chalk board, “I will be done in a second.”

Sansa gathered her muslin skirts in hand and gracefully sat upon the hard-wooden bench, resting her frilled parasol against the desk. She tugged off her kid leather gloves before they were stained grey with dust.

“Well, you really went through with it then, you and Miss Tarth?” Sansa remarked.

Arya’s back stiffened, but still she kept scribbling.

“Miss Tarth is not here?” Sansa looked round the room as though expecting her to emerge from behind a desk.

“Taking the senior girls out on an expedition to the woods, with Miss Greyjoy and Miss Craster,” Arya explained succinctly.

“An _expedition?”_ Sansa repeated, her pretty mouth puckering as though the word left an unpleasant taste on her tongue.

“That’s right,” Arya said, gripping the chalk tightly in her fist. “Hiking, fishing, cooking on open fires and relieving themselves in the bushes.”

“Arya!” Sansa cried, “How can you speak like that. What sort of example are you setting your students?”

“Why don’t you ask them?” Arya replied, jerking her head towards the doorway.

From the doorway, a gaggle of girls lurked around the corner, giggling. Atrocious manners, but Sansa was inclined to be forgiving as she heard hushed sighs over the beauty of her clothes. She offered up a charming smile, as a shy young girl with the most unfortunate ears stumbled in with a cup of watery tea, which Sansa graciously accepted with a dainty lily-white hand.

“Thank you dear,” she said, cordially as a queen.

“That’s a beautiful dress,” the girl mumbled awkwardly, practically dipping a curtsey.

On hearing the child speak, Arya turned around and blinked, dropping the chalk as though blinded.

“Very pretty,” she agreed mildly, taking in the lace extravaganza blossoming before her.

Sansa ran her hand over her skirts, taking pleasure in the rustle of fabric beneath her fingers. “It is a gift,” she said with a tilt of the chin, “From Harry.”

Arya turned back around the face the board, picking up the chalk once more. “Who is Harry?” she asked perfunctorily.

“Harold Hardying,” Sansa announced proudly, waiting for Arya to respond. When no such response came, she crumpled her skirts with irritation, before quickly smoothing out the creases.

Delighted gasps came from the doorway, causing Arya’s forehead to wrinkle in annoyance.

“Is that name meant to mean anything?” she asked coldly.

“Mr Hardying does business with my guardian,” the big eared-school girl piped up. “He’s very good looking.”

“Has he been paying you court as well, Shireen?” Arya asked, tugging at the girl’s pigtails.

Shireen giggled and shook her head. “No, he barely notices me.”

“His loss,” Arya said firmly, bending down to rootle in her desk. From its confines she presented a handsome black leather book, with gold lettering proclaiming it to be a history of the Long Night and its heroes. “Speaking of your guardian-”

Shireen beamed with delight, rocking backwards and forwards on her toes as she embraced the heavy tome to her chest like a kitten.

“Remember, it’s for the school, so put it in the library when you’re done,” Arya ordered Shireen warmly. “Now scram.”  

Still smiling with the power of a thousand suns, and clutching the book to her chests, she scurried from the room.

“And that goes for the rest of you!” Arya called, sending the rest of the girls fleeing. She smiled fondly at the sound of footsteps clattering down the hallway. “Shireen’s guardian is one of our greatest benefactors, the school could not stand without Mr Seaworth’s help.”

Disappointed to have lost her admiring audience, Sansa set down her lukewarm tea.

“I suppose Harry is one of the ton’s most eligible bachelors?” Arya asked, grey eyes sparkling in mirth.

“Not anymore.” Sansa presented her hand, her slender fingers dwarfed by a giant diamond ring.

“Oh,” Arya said.

“Oh?” Sansa repeated, “Is that all you have to say? Have you nothing else to offer? Congratulations perhaps?”

“Condolences?” Arya suggested dryly.

Two patches of pink spread over Sansa’s cheeks. “I have no need of condolences. Harry is a fine man.”

“I wasn’t offering them to you,” Arya replied.

Narrowing her eyes in dislike, Sansa took a calming breath. “Well, I offer this invitation as grudgingly as I don’t doubt you will accept it, but because Mama and Papa insisted, I ask, will you come?”

“I suppose I must,” Arya sighed, grateful at least for a chance to see her brothers again. “Is Jon coming?”

“Lord Mormont has graciously allowed him leave,” Sansa answered, pride filling her voice once more, “Of course, he will be joining him. Several high-ranking Generals are attending. Harry is very well connected.” Her face darkened with a frown. “Arya, I must tell you now that all of society will be attending, so you will wear the clothes I have selected for you, and you will behave yourself.”

“Well I am not going to start a food fight at the wedding breakfast,” Arya retorted, her reply rather less cutting coming from the woman who not two days ago had started one in the teacher’s lounge, that had culminated in Miss Targaryen setting the curtains alight.

“Mama has also instructed me to extend the invitation to Miss Tarth,” Sansa continued, causing Arya’s face to brighten up, “And another member of your staff, at Harry’s insistence. Your fencing master, I believe?”

“Mr Lannister?” Arya repeated, “Why do you want him?” “It is fitting we have a Lannister present,” Sansa said stiffly, “As it is, he is the only Lannister who is presentable for decent society, recent career choices aside.”

“I will extend them your invitations,” Arya said coolly, “Though I feel guilty for inflicting such horrors upon them, they have done nothing to _me_. Will you stay for tea?”

Sansa gathered her skirts and collected her parasol. “I do not think so,” she said swiftly. “The wedding is in two months. Good day Arya.”

Arya stifled a groan as she watched her sister depart. Having to endure Sansa’s wedding, and all the festivities leading up to it, filled her stomach with dread. At least she would see her brothers and Jon again, and have Brienne and Mr Lannister for company. Watching them together was good sport, and no doubt the rest of the staff would be hounding her to report back. Weddings were known to beget weddings

Two months. Madame Tyrell was sure to be delighted. Ever since Mr Lannister had joined their staff, he and Brienne had been a subject of a school-wide wager, and two months was Mrs Tyrell’s estimate. Arya stood up and went to tell their theatre teacher the good news.


	6. Chapter 6

 “Excellent progress today, young ladies.” Jaime beamed, removing his mask. “Thank you all for your hard work. And great thanks to my dazzling assistant.” He bowed to Brienne courteously, his gold hair matted and his eyes dancing.

The class of red faced, bright eyed girls tittered, as they were wont to do in Jaime’s presence. Brienne frowned in disapproval as the girls passed her on their way to the changing rooms, giggling and whispering as they cast looks at their dashing fencing master over their shoulder. Brienne very much hoped that her girls’ buzz of excitement was a result of Miss Targaryen’s promised gunpowder demonstration and not from Mr Lannister’s glistening skin and mussed hair.

“So, Miss Tarth?” Jaime strolled over to Brienne, sabre in hand, “Another round?”

Brienne shook her head. “I must change and plan my next lesson, and we have a staff meeting in fifteen minutes.” She raised her sabre and frowned sternly at Jaime. “For which your presence is required.”

“Timetabling?” Jaime asked, running his hand against his sweat drenched forehead and scraping his matted hair from his eyes.

“We need to discuss who will cover our lessons when we are in King’s Landing, Miss Reed is offering to fill in your hours with a javelin throwing course.” Brienne grimaced. “But Miss Targaryen has argued that teaching the girls to make their own dynamite would be more productive.”

Jaime nodded. “It is the future of combat.”

“I’m surprised you wish to go at all,” Brienne admitted. “Two weeks dining and toasting with the Starks, bumping elbows with the upper classes. Isn’t that what you came here to escape?”

Jaime just smiled in response. “Myrcella is incredibly jealous, all the girls are talking about it. They have read all about it in the society papers. Poor Miss Stark is sick to death of hearing about it,” he asked, “Why did you accept the invitation?”

“I was Sansa’s Governess,” Brienne pointed, “And I still feel like Arya’s Governess at times,” she admitted ruefully. “And it was Mrs Stark who invited me, I could not refuse her. Not after all she has done for me. Even if it does mean socialising with certain…people,” Brienne gagged.

“My poor, sweet Miss Tarth. Never fear, I shall protect you from that horde of perfumed hornets.” Jaime dropped to his knees and seized Brienne’s had. “Your brave knight shall safely guard you from the loathsome bachelors, the crusty old men, the scheming dames and the poisonous debutantes.”

Brienne jerked her hand away, thankful that her skin was already as red and blotchy as a strawberry. “Off your knees, you fool,” she ordered. “And you still haven’t told me why you accepted the invitation.”

“Is it not clear, Miss Tarth?” the fool asked, still stubbornly kneeling before her in a mockery of worship. “It is so might dance with you.” 

Brienne scowled and stormed towards the door. “Do not mock me,” she huffed, hands on the doorknob.

Jaime scrambled to his feet and strode towards her, stilling her hand with his own. “I am entirely in earnest,” he assured her.

“If you speak like that, I shall take you up on your jape and you shall rightly be punished for it, for I have yet to master a single dance that does not result in my partner’s feet suffering greatly,” Brienne warned.

“My feet will suffer any pain to-”

It was at this moment their ears were assaulted by the sound of girls screaming and their nostrils invaded by smoke. Miss Targaryen came flurrying from the chemistry room next door, soot smeared against her face.

“Just a minor problem with the gunpowder,” Miss Targaryen assured them, “Nothing to concern yourselves about.”

~

Waved off by a gaggle of envious girls, all pleading to be told every detail of the great wedding in detail, the party left for King’s Landing with various degrees of reluctance. The prospect of being forced to don finery and frippery and suffer through Sansa’s pre-wedding jitters made Arya want to flee to the woods to join the wolves. Nevertheless, she was soon to see her brothers and beloved cousin for the first time in months, and for that she was willing to weather anything. With no particular regard for the Starks, Jaime looked forward with vindictive pleasure to shocking the most odious of guests that should come his way, for he was certain he would find many.

Brienne, however, already chagrined at the prospect at spending her time amongst the blue bloods who somehow managed to look down her even as she loomed above them, left the school filled with dread at the prospect of returning to find it burnt to cinders. A sudden feud had broken out between Mirri Maz Duur and Miss Targaryen, the reason for which she could not fathom.

Unbeknown to her, Mirri had foretold that Jaime would reveal his feelings after a sparring session and staked money on it and had accused Miss Targaryen of sabotaging the moment with her gunpowder.

Miss Targaryen had countered that the explosion was unintentional, a claim supported by her course record of minor (and not so minor) fires breaking out in her classrooms. And her bedroom. The squabble was threatening to break out into full on warfare, with each teacher using the students as their foot soldiers. Brienne half-expected to return to find half her students roaming the corridors armed with gunpowder, and the other half in possession of mystic powers.

Either way, something was exploding.

After a long journey of being rattled round in the train carriage, they arrived at King’s Landing Station sore and tired. Jaime; a King’s Landing native until recently, left the ladies to sort out the luggage while he dashed off to find a cab. The party had left at sunrise and arrived not long before midnight, and each one wanted nothing more than to fall into bed. Even so, neither Brienne nor Arya could help but perk up at the sight of King’s Landing at night. With her face pressed against her window, Arya pointed out every sight; every castle, statue and park, and demanded a laughing Jaime to tell her about each one.

“Well ladies,” Jaime announced as they drew up outside a handsome townhouse and he clambered form the cab, “This is where I must leave you. I trust you will find your way to Winter House safely from here? Or do you wish me to remain with you for your protection?” Brienne and Arya scoffed.

“We are more than capable of taking care of ourselves, thank you Mr Lannister.” Brienne knocked the roof of the cab with her knuckles. “Drive on!”

Still laughing, Jaime stood back in the fog lights to wave them off. Despite herself, Brienne twisted round to catch one last sight of him, eyes glinting and white teeth sparkling in the gaslight.  


	7. Chapter 7

Neither Arya nor Brienne had ventured into the historical King’s Landing before. By all rights it should have been a grand and educational experience. So far, out of all the sights they longed to devour, it was merely the Sept of Baelor they had the chance to visit. Although initially entranced by the ancient Sept’s grandeur, both of the young ladies swiftly tired of it after the fifth trip that week to decide the optimal position for flowers. Jaime Lannister had offered to escort them on exciting expedition after another, only to be turned down by a reluctant Arya and an even more disappointed Brienne.

“I am sorry dears,” Catelyn Stark said as they roamed around the cavernous halls of the Sept of Baelor. Brienne and Arya had accepted an invitation to visit the Black Cells of the Red Keep, only for Sansa to absolutely insist they must go in her place to see to some vital candle emergency. “I am afraid your visit must be incredibly disappointing for both of you.” She cast a rueful eye over the Sept. “Things would have been so much simpler had Sansa held the wedding at Winterfell. I know your father had his heart set on it,” Catelyn told Arya, “And it would have been heartening for Sansa to have been wed before friends, in front of the very people who have watched her grow. Mikken and Old Nan and the rest…”

“Why not pay for their fare to come up here?” Arya demanded, “I know they would have liked to come.”

Catelyn’s lips pursed. “Sansa and Mr Hardying are anxious to have a fashionable town wedding, with the ‘right sort of people’. I fear the lower classes who peopled Sansa’s youth are making way for strangers with blue blood. Although I daresay we could have fit as many guests as we would have liked,” Mrs Stark mused, staring at the great domed ceiling.

“It’s not the lack of space that has Sansa barring the door to our friends and she knows it,” Arya said sharply. “She thinks the people of our childhood not good enough for her wedding to that puffed up popinjay! No doubt she fears they will track mud into the reception and swindle the silver wear!”

Catelyn Stark could not bring herself to disagree. She sighed and took Brienne’s arm, taking comfort in the support of the large, steady girl.

“I do wonder if this is the right thing for her,” Catelyn said, more to herself than anyone else.

Brienne frowned in concern for her old charge.

“Do you dislike Mr Hardying?” she asked anxiously.

Catelyn gave an unladylike shrug. “I neither like nor dislike him,” Catelyn admitted. “It is a good match, he is handsome and wealthy and can give Sansa everything she ever wanted. But in truth, I suspect Sansa is more in love with being a bride than with him.” She shook her head and sighed. “Oh, I know I barely knew Ned when we were married, it was an arrangement between our families more than anything else, but my father and I both saw Ned’s strength and honour and we respected each other, and from that our love grew. Harry Hardying has no such strength. I think him to be a weak man.”

“Then why are you letting her marry him?” Arya demanded.

“Because Sansa is a grown woman,” Catelyn snapped. “I do not think he is dangerous, or malicious or someone Sansa needs to be warned away from. And if have let you follow your goals, whatever they may be, I must give her the same courtesy.” “You cannot mean that mine and Brienne’s desire to provide girls with an education is somehow on a par with Sansa’s dreams of becoming a rich man’s wife, sitting around in dresses and eating lemon cakes?” Arya sked incredulously.

“I am a rich man’s wife, is that what you think of me?” Catelyn fixed a gimlet eye on her youngest daughter.

Arya lurched forward and quickly threw her arms around her mother, hugging her tightly.

“Not you Mama,” Arya said fervently, “You always have a project or a cause to fight for. I grew up seeing you help unfortunate after unfortunate. I watched you take on politicians and spend hours working through the night fixing the world’s problems. I opened my school because I wanted to be like _you.”_

“We truly could not have opened Queen Nymeria’s without you, Mrs Stark,” Brienne said softly, but no less intensely.

Catelyn tenderly ran a hand down Arya’s cheek and kissed her child on the forehead. She threw Brienne a fond smile. “I am honoured to have been of help.”

Arya lingered in her mother’s embrace for a moment longer, before returning to the matter at hand like a dog worrying at a tough piece of beef.

“But Sansa isn’t like that. She just wants to go to balls and have nice things,” Arya insisted.

Fond of her old charge as she was, Brienne had to agree. “I must say, it does seem that Miss Stark’s charitable endeavours begin and end with summer bazaars and charity balls.”

“She’s young,” Catelyn said. “Oh, I know she is older than you, Arya, and I know Brienne was supporting herself when she was even younger than Sansa is now, but I’m sure in time she will learn that endless balls and parties lose their glow after a while. A life led solely for leisure becomes a very melancholy one. When Sansa wishes to do something more with her life, I know I can easily find her a cause or a passion to stick her teeth into.” Catelyn blinked in the golden dust of the Sept. “It’s just finding her a new husband that I shall struggle with.”

“Have you spoken to her about your doubts?” Brienne probed gently.

“Ned and I tried, but you know how it is with the young. You express doubt over their desires and suddenly that is all they want.” Catelyn squeezed Arya’s shoulder. “And you know all about that, don’t you Arya?”

Arya sulkily shrugged off her mother’s hand. “Yes, but what I want is sensible,” she insisted.

“Should I talk to her?” Brienne suggested, anxious to do something to ease her benefactor’s troubles.

Catelyn took Brienne’s hand and rose onto her toes to kiss her cheek. “Sweet girl,” Catelyn murmured. “Yes,” she said decisively, “A new perspective could do Sansa good. At least if Sansa goes though with this marriage, she will exactly what she is getting into.”

Catelyn tucked her arm through Brienne’s as they strolled down the aisle. “Talk to Mr Lannister and see if you could reschedule your expedition to tomorrow and bring Sansa along. Get her away from all this wedding palaver and see how she feels far from the glamour and fuss.”

“As you wish Mrs Stark,” Brienne agreed, greatly heartened to have found a way of helping her benefactor. She wondered when the optimal time would be to call on Jaime, and whether she would be able to steal some moments alone with him before she confronted Sansa.


	8. Chapter 8

Brienne reasoned that her best choice was to leave Sansa to her own devices through the majority of the trip as a way of preventing bringing up the subject of Harold Hardying until the end, so that Sansa had the chance to forget about the wedding, and so that what was certain to be a distressing conversation would not cast a pall over the day.  

Instead, she walked along with Jaime, who was determined to fill their day with as many amusements as possible before they were once more suckered into the dark realm of wedding plans. In the crisp sunlight, Brienne indulged herself in the feel of Jaime’s muscles beneath his shirt sleeves and his persistent chatter in her ear. So far, they explored the Red Keep, the Dragonpit, the Black Cells and were now strolling along Blackwater Bay, watching the ships and listening to the gentle crash of water against the harbour walls.

“I’m so glad we finally found a minute to be together,” Jaime admitted as they watched fine Myrish lace and other divine fabrics be unloaded from a handsome vessel from Myr.

Despite the breeze of the water, a blush rose up Brienne’s cheeks. “I am sorry for neglecting you,” she said. “I hope I may see more of you now. Arya’s brothers are arriving tomorrow, and we have agreed to offload the bulk of the remaining wedding plans onto them.”

“So, you have no more odious tasks left ahead of you?” Jaime beamed, stray locks of golden hair over his forehead flickering in the breeze. Brienne ached to comb them back.

“Just one,” Brienne admitted, looking over at Sansa. The soon to be bride was looking pensively out over the water, looking like tragic a waif from a fairy tale, for all of her modern finery and gay flowered hat. Arya was interrogating a purple haired Myrish ship captain, and for all that Brienne would have like to join her, she knew she could not put off her duty for much longer.

Reluctantly disentangling herself from Jaime, Brienne wound her way over to Sansa, painting her face with an uneasy smile.

Sansa did not spare a glance for her dowdy, upright former Governess, instead staring out at the boats.

“Do you ever wish you could just jump onto one of these ships and go wherever they took you?” Brienne asked, watching the brightly coloured flag fluttering against the ice blue sky.

“Not really,” Sansa said. “I find King’s Landing has everything I could possibly want. Elegant parties, good society, the finest clothes-”

“Your fiance?” Brienne winced. She had intended to ease into the subject a bit more gently, to begin by mentioning how she had seen little of Mr Hardying and what a pity it was he kept cancelling his plans to join the family for dinner and slowly work her way from there.

“Him too,” Sansa said sharply. She eyed up Brienne suspiciously. “Did Mother and Father put you up to this?”

Brienne saw there was little point in lying and decided a delicate approach would be a waste of their time.

“Yes, your mother was concerned, and to be perfectly frank, I am also. Do you like Mr Hardying truly? You barely seem to spend any time together.”

“This may shock you Miss Tarth, but I think you will find I am quite preoccupied with wedding plans,” Sansa said defensively, pouting beneath her perfect curls and flowered bonnet.

“That does not surprise me at all. In fact, it’s perfectly clear to me that you are so preoccupied with the wedding that you are giving very little thought as to what your life will be like _after_ the wedding.”

“I am not a child,” Sansa insisted, “You cannot scold me as you used to do.”

“If you think that adults cannot be scolded then you truly are a child,” Brienne scoffed.

Sansa tilted her chin and turned from Brienne. “You have no right to judge me,” she said haughtily. “You cannot comprehend how hard it is to be me.”

Brienne raised an eyebrow. “Indeed? In which case, I beg you to relate all the hardships of what it is to be Miss Stark, the toast of society, to the penniless orphaned Governess.”

Still looking determinedly out at the harbour, Sansa let out a harsh sob. “This is my third season. Do you understand how humiliating it is to be on my third season? Jeyne is married, and so is Myranda and even Beth is engaged! I cannot be the last one left on the shelf!” Sansa twisted her linen skirts in her hands. “First Joffrey Baratheon ran off to Essos, then Sir Loras went travelling in Dorne with Renly Baratheon. Harry is my last chance.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Brienne said. “You are an accomplished, charming young lady. There is no need to rush into anything. Even now, things can be put on hold. I am sure your father will not mind.”

“Oh, you don’t understand!” Sansa wept. “Everyone expected such great things of me, Mama, Father, everyone at home. The servants, the tenants and the farmers. The prettiest daughter of the Starks, destined for a great match, maybe even a title. And yet here I am, twenty and barely escaping spinsterhood.”

“But why all the haste?” Brienne demanded. “You are not destitute, you will never want for anything. Your family will always see you well looked after. Why not wait until someone you truly care about comes along?”

“Do you believe that there is a surplus of handsome young gentlemen of breeding and fortune?” Sansa scoffed. “Where do you suppose I find a match more advantageous than Harry?”

“Why must you marry for breeding and fortune?” Brienne replied, “You already have both. I know your family would much rather you were happy with a respectable man you truly loved, than bind yourself for eternity to a wealthy cad whom you barely know.”

“You know and understand nothing of these matters,” Sansa hissed. “You and Arya, what do you know of love and marriage? You were never meant for such things.” Brienne resisted the urge to box Sansa’s ears, and instead calmed herself by looking for Jaime in the crowd. She saw him, handsome and ruffled in the wind, standing a head taller than the rest of the crowd. Evidently, he had been watching her and Sansa’s heated exchange, for his face was one of tender concern.

“I know more than you might think,” Brienne said quietly.

An ugly smile alighted onto Sansa’s pretty lips. “Of course, you do,” Sansa sneered, turning on her thin, perilously high heels, intent on storming off along the cobbled street.

“Sansa!” Brienne called after her.

“I have nothing more to say to you Miss Tarth,” Sansa snarled.

“But Sansa-”

“You are a fool Miss Tarth. You speak as though any moment my handsome hero shall come forth, but I till you he will not! I shall not give up this opportunity for some childish dream!”

“Sansa, truly-”

With a shriek, Sansa tottered sharply forward as the lace on her hem that had snagged on a nail pulled tight and sent her flying forwards. With a great splash, she plunged into the brackish waters of Blackwater Bay.

The quay was full of hardened sailors, anyone of whom could have jumped into the water and kept the staid and stern headmistress from making s spectacle of herself. But Brienne gave them no mind as she threw herself neatly into the frigid waters, ignoring the shrieks and cries coming from the land, and only momentarily wondering if one of them came from Jaime.

Fingers grasping at the heavy satin of Sansa’s walking gown, Brienne tangled her other fingers into Sansa’s streaming red hair and dragged her towards the surface. There, an ashen faced Arya and Jaime waited amongst a teething throng of spectators. After giving Sansa a boost as Jaime pulled the stuttering young girl onto land, Brienne then allowed herself to be wrenched up gasping by the calloused hands of strangers. The crowd patted her on the back and through her water-logged ears Brienne heard congratulations and utterances of “Well done lass,” in a multitude of accents. Someone wrapped a thick black woollen man’s cloak around her shoulders. Arya, one hand firmly on Sansa’s shoulder, reached out and gripped Brienne’s hand with the other.

“Are you alright?” Jaime asked as he solicitously draped his own coat around Sansa’s shoulders.

“I’m fine,” Brienne assured him, wrapping the cloak tight around her front. “Sansa, are you well?”

But Sansa had no time for Brienne. Instead she was staring up at Jaime’s chiselled face in rapture. In an absent-minded attempt to ease her shaking, Jaime had wrapped his arm around her shoulder and held her close to his chest. Pressed snug against him, Sansa wondered if it was truly just the shock and cold that had her heart thumping like drum. Eyes blazing, Sansa gazed up at her handsome ‘saviour’.

“Oh Mr Lannister,” she sighed as he swept her from her feet and carried her off in search of a hansom cab. “Thank you ever so much.”

The cold must have stolen the air from Sansa’s lungs and kept her form talking louder than a whisper, for Mr Lannister did not seem to have heard Sansa well and instead kept his head craned over his shoulder, watching Brienne in concern.

“We had best make for my brother’s house,” Jaime told Brienne and Arya as he deposited Sansa into the cab and gently helped a numb Brienne up the stairs. As Arya settle in beside her sister, Jaime took Brienne’s ice-cold hands and gently breathed warm air over them. “Tyrion’s house is far closer, and the sooner we can get you warmed up, the better.”


	9. Chapter 9

Tyrion Lannister and Samwell Tarly blinked in joint surprise as the bedraggled group of day trippers stumbled in. Whereas the kindly faced Samwell Tarly looked rather like a startled sheep, the quick eyed Tyrion noted with bemusement the adoration brimming in Sansa Stark’s eyes as his handsome big brother carried her across the threshold.

“Trouble at the docks?” Tyrion ventured. “I will ring for Mrs Donyse to see the ladies settled. Tarly, send note to the Starks. Assure them they need not worry. Miss Stark, could we prevail upon you to take a bed for the night?”

“Only if it is no bother for you,” Sansa replied, directing her answer at Jaime for some inexplicable reason.

On the arrival of the Housekeeper and two maids, Jaime wordlessly offloaded Sansa into their care, taking from them a blanket in turn and draping it upon Brienne’s shoulders. Sansa pursed her lips as Mrs Donyse clucked around her, wrapping her in a thick dressing gown, before walking up the handsome ebony staircase with far less assistance than one would expect of a maid who had insisted on being carried from the carriage to the door.

“Do you need a room also, Miss Tarth?” Jaime asked solicitously.

“I must, if Sansa is staying the night,” Brienne mumbled, clutching at her blanket with numb fingers. “T’would not be proper otherwise.”

Warm, clean clothes were found for Brienne, who refused to go to bed and instead resolved on waiting for the Starks to arrive. Woken the disturbance, Tommen watched the commotion from the balcony and refused to return to bed. Instead, he joined his uncles and tutor along with Brienne and Arya as they waited for the Starks and the physician.

His nephew amused by his doting Uncle Tyrion, and Arya and Samwell engaged in conversation in their joint acquaintance in Arya’s cousin Jon, a former schoolfriend of Tarly’s, Jaime pressed a glass of mulled wine into Brienne’s trembling hands.

“Are you sure you do not wish to retire?” Jaime asked softly.

“I must wait up for the Starks,” Brienne insisted, “And to see Arya off.”

Jaime spared a glance at his colleague, whose forward had become lined with concern as her quiet conversation with the tutor had turned strangely intense.

For the hours that followed the townhouse of the Lannisters, became a bustling hub of activity. The Starks descended upon the manse, their physician in tow, who Mrs Stark near physically dragged up the stairs to see to her ailing daughter.

“What happened Arya?” Ned Stark demanded, mopping the beads of sweat off his forehead.

“Sansa got her skirt tangled on a nail, tripped and fell into the waters,” Arya replied succinctly. “She wasn’t in for long, Brienne jumped in immediately and pulled her out.”

“My great thanks,” Ned Stark said fervently, gripping Brienne’s hand.

It was near an hour before Mrs Stark descended the stairs, some of her usually composure regained from her former state of distress.

“Doctor Luwin assures me that Sansa does not seem to have taken much harm,” Catelyn Stark announced, “Although he agrees that it would be best for her to remain abed. Sansa herself insists she will not be recovered in time for the wedding Ned, so you must inform Harry in the morning. I will see to the cancellations.” She turned to Jaime and gave him a dignified nod. “Sansa did not provide me with the full details, but it seems than I am to give you my thanks if her rhapsodising of your heroics is any indication.”

Jaime raised an eyebrow. “Such praise is entirely undeserved, it is our intrepid Miss Tarth who helped Miss Stark from the waters.” Jaime clasped a warm hand on Brienne’s shoulder, squeezing it firmly.

Catelyn’s forehead creased in confusion at Jaime’s revelation.

“Why would Sansa declare you her hero if it was Brienne who rescued her?” she asked.

“Why indeed,” Arya said dryly, taking a sip of tea.

#

“Father and Harry both insist that we must hold a smaller wedding,” Sansa declared. “Apparently far too much money has been spent and they want my wedding to be held on the _cheap_!”

“Oh, the horrors,” Arya muttered.

“The whole thing seems so futile now,” Sansa admitted, slumping against her silk cushions. “The caterers are cancelled, the flowers are cancelled, the musicians are cancelled. All I have left is my wedding gown.” “And your fiance,” Brienne put in.

“Harry has disappointed me,” Sansa said. “He is being deliberately difficult. In truth,” she lowered her voice, “I am thinking of calling it off.”

Brienne stifled a sigh of relief, and wondered whose gratitude was greatest. Her own, the Starks, or Mr Hardying. “If you think that is best,” Brienne said solemnly. “I am glad you are willing to take some time to find someone more appropriate.”

“In truth, I do not believe I need much time,” Sansa admitted, her cheeks pink with pleasure.

Brienne glared at Arya as she let out an unladylike snort.

“I’m going,” Arya announced, lips still twitching. “The boys are taking me on a hack in the King’s Wood.”

“And I have promised Mr Tarly that I would assist him in Tommen’s history lesson today,” Brienne added.

“Don’t go!” Sansa pleaded. “I am so bored in here.”

“Then get up,” Arya demanded. “You seem perfectly fine, and Brienne has fully recovered. There is no reason for you to stay in this house a moment longer.”

“Well, my constitution is not as strong as Miss Tarth’s,” Sansa said stiffly.

Arya took Brienne’s hand and left Sansa to her sick bed.

“Mama is dragging Sansa North once she has recovered,” Arya told Brienne. “She thinks it will do her good to get away from society for a bit. Mama already has a whole agenda of tasks she is going to inflict upon Sansa, once she has stopped mooning after Jaime Lannister.” “You seem even more merciless towards your sister than usual,” Brienne noted. “Is something amiss?”

“Do you know Mr Tarly’s sister?” Arya demanded.

Brienne’s eyebrows shot up. “I do not believe so,” she said hesitantly.

“Sam is worried about her,” Arya explained. “A few weeks ago, she tried to run away with a dancing troupe, but her father found her and is forcing her to marry a brown teethed Fossoway who is older than she is.”

Brienne’s face softened. “Poor girl,” she said empathetically. “If there is anything I can do to help, let me know.” She kissed her friend’s cheek and patted her shoulder. “I must go see to Tommen now, enjoy your day with your brothers and Mr Snow.”

The ‘history lesson’ with Tommen with Mr Tarly escalated into a re-enactment of a tourney melee, complete with wooden rulers for swords and textbooks for shields. Upon hearing the din and clash of wood on wood, Jaime rushed up the stairs to join the fray.

Red faced and breathless, Jaime mockingly knighted Tommen while Brienne and Samwell set about tidying away the mess, using the opportunity to reiterate her offers of help for his sister. On leaving the students, Jaime turned to Brienne and bowed.

“Well fought, my good lady knight,” he declared.

Heady from the fight, Brienne laughed and offered up a wobbly curtsey. “And you also, good Ser.”

“Seven Hells I cannot wait to return to my classroom,” Jaime sighed. “I am happy seeing Tyrion and Tommen again, but I feel so aimless here. I need to get back to work.”

“You can return without me,” Brienne assured him. “But I cannot leave until Sansa has recovered sufficiently to go back to her parents.” Jaime frowned at the reminder of his stubborn house guest. Miss Stark had declared herself sufficiently recovered to join them for dinner, pale and lovely in the evening gowns from her wasted trousseau. Every evening, Jaime had sat and listened to the flamed haired beauty giggle and flatter, while Tyrion and Brienne watched his silent suffering in barely concealed amusement.

Jaime longed to return to Queen Nymeria’s. To smell the pines on his morning walk, to hear the laughter of his girls as they danced around the gymnasium. To see Myrcella laughing arm in arm with her friends and hear from her teachers on how she was excelling in her studies. But he was not willing to return if it was not with Brienne by his side.

“Mr Lannister!” a lyrical voice called. “What a boon it is to see you here.” “It’s my house,” Jaime replied.

Sansa stood before him, dressed in a light gown of white muslin

“It is such a glorious day,” she sighed, looking out of the window. “And I have not yet had the pleasure of seeing your gardens, if you would be so good as to oblige me.”

“Are you sure it will not prove too taxing for your strength?” Jaime asked.

“I am much recovered,” Sansa assured him.

“Excellent. Then I will be glad to escort you to my garden.” Jaime offered Sansa his arm. Over his shoulder, he called to a befuddled Brienne. “Would you be so good as to tell ask Mrs Donyse to pack up Miss Stark’s things and have the carriage pulled round. I am sure the Starks will be pleased to have their daughter returned to them, now that she is so much better.”


	10. Chapter 10

 

 “This time tomorrow, we shall be home,” Jaime murmured, looking around the Starks’ handsome Drawing Room with contentment. The candles threw a gentle gloom across the room as a fire crackled merrily. Tyrion, Mr Stark and Mr Robb Stark were sharing a glass of port, whilst Mrs Stark played cards with her remaining sons. Sansa sat in the corner of the room, white faced and red eyed and trying to keep her gaze averted from the mismatched pair in the corner.

Arya had disappeared with Jon Snow, no doubt stealing a final moment with her beloved cousin. Tomorrow, the merry trio were returning to their school on the early train. Returning to hard beds and chalk on their hands and explosions in the science room. In order to travel with the headmistresses, Jaime had accepted an invitation to spend the night at Winter House and accompany them from there.

Brienne smiled, placing a finger in her book to mark her spot.

“Is that our book?” Jaime enquired.

“Our book?” Brienne repeated, raising an incredulous eyebrow.

“Indeed,” Jaime insisted. He reached out and pointed at his scribbles. “See how well our writing is joined together.”

Suddenly feeling rather hot under her sensible collar, Brienne turned her attention to their journey tomorrow.

“You must be glad at the thought of seeing Myrcella tomorrow,” Brienne remarked.

Jaime’s green eyes glittered as he nodded. “Definitely,” he agreed. “And the other girls and my fencing foils and the rest. I haven’t had a good duel in weeks.”

“You should have asked me,” Brienne rebuked him. “I am sure we could have found some good foils.”

“In truth I have been waiting,” Jaime admitted, “for something better than foils.”

He cast a look around the room and quietly stood, taking Brienne’s hand.

“Join me in the hall, I have something to show you.”

Brienne wordlessly followed Jaime into the Stark’s dimly lit hallway. There she waited as Jaime dashed up the stairs to the room, reappearing later flushed and carrying a long black box.

“These arrived today,” he informed her. “Fresh from the family seat.”

At his urging, Brienne opened the box, blue eyes widening as she saw two antique swords encased within. Lying on plush red velvet, with golden pommels and rubies, their steel unlike any she had seen before.

“Valyrian steel?” Brienne asked, reaching out to stroke the blade tentatively.

“Family heirlooms.” Jaime confirmed. He rested the box on a table and pulled out the larger one, with the lion detail.

“Hold it,” he ordered firmly.

Brienne took it in hand, breathing in at the weight in her grip. She held it up so that she could admire its shine in the candlelight.

“Beautiful,” Jaime murmured.

“I dreamed of having a sword like this,” Brienne whispered, transfixed at the blade’s sharp light. “I would traipse around the island with a wooden stick, pretending to be a knight of old. Riding dragons and protecting maids in distress.”

“Well, we’re half there.” Jaime smiled. “With our school. There’s even a sword or two involved.”

“Not much dragon slaying,” Brienne said ruefully. “And we have yet been called upon to use those swords in the defence of persecuted young maidens from vengeful old man.”

“Give it time,” Jaime assured her. “I daresay when half our students have set their father’s study on fire during the summer holidays, we will have a multitude of vengeful old men form whom our young maidens will need much protecting from.”

“Our students are not going to set their fathers’ studies on fire,” Brienne rebuked him, before pursing her lips and swallowing. “Not intentionally, at least. Perhaps it is best we will have no dragons to contend with.”

“Perhaps,” Jaime agreed, the amused smile on his lips bringing a flush to Brienne’s cheeks. She regretted they were not stood in a room with a fire and less of a draft, for there was little to account for her rising heat.

“We had best return to the others,” Brienne said stiffly. “It is not seemly.”

“Just a few more moments,” Jaime begged. “We are unlikely to find much time for each other once we have returned to work.”

“It’s inappropriate,” Brienne insisted.

“What if we made it appropriate?” Jaime asked.

Brienne swallowed, her throat tight and dry. Jaime ran his hand down her arm, waiting for a response. He was to wait a long time, for Brienne’s tongue had miraculously transformed into a dead slug.

“Brienne?” Jaime probed as the silence lingered. “You have not spoken for five minutes.”

“What do you mean by make it appropriate?” Brienne demanded.

A faint line appeared between Jaime’s lines as he pondered how best to put the question, preferably not sending Brienne into a heady silence once more in the process. His eyes alighted upon the remaining sword. Taking the gold pommel in hand and sinking to the knees in one graceful, fluid movement, Jaime placed the sword at her feet.

“I know you care little for rings,” Jaime explained. “Would a sword suffice?”

“Jaime I…” Brienne’s voice wavered.

“You’re calling me by my given name,” Jaime noted, “we must be engaged.” A smile graced Brienne’s plain face, a light wholly unrelated to the candles touching her eyes.

“I suppose we must be,” Brienne agreed, reaching out to bring Jaime to his feet.

Beaming with the brilliance of a thousand burning arrows, Jaime cupped the back of Brienne’s head and rans his fingers through the fine yellow strands. Eyes laughing, he tilted his head too look her in the eye and strained his neck upwards, his lips growing tantalisingly close.

And then, with the subtlety of an aurochs in a hat shop, Arya stumbled in. Wild eyed and wind-swept hair tumbling from beneath her rammed-on bonnet, she sprinted forward and grasped Brienne’s hand.

“Come,” she panted, her face red and glistening. “Come, you must come now, both of you.” With Brienne fearing some sort of injury had taken place, and Jaime fearing that if whatever business Arya had took long enough to resolve for Brienne to change her mind before Jaime had a chance to kiss her, they made haste through the front door and down the stone steps, swords forgotten.

There, a carriage awaited. Jaime blinked in surprise to find Samwell Tarly’s round, good natured face to peering out from the door. Jon Snow perched above in the driver’s seat, hand clenched around the leather reins as though he planned to dash away at a moment’s notice. In the dim street light, Brienne could make out a second, smaller silhouette, clinging to Mr Tarly like moss to a stone.

“What is the meaning of this?” Brienne demanded.

“You know of Sam’s troubles with his sister and father?” Jon Snow called down impatiently. “Well, her father is upon us now and we must make haste to the train station.” Brienne spluttered and shook her head whilst Jaime peered through the carriage windows, making out the face of a young girl, white with terror.

“I didn’t know about this!” Brienne retorted.

Jon Snow glared down at his little cousin. “You said they knew of the plan!” he hissed.

“I said they knew that Talla was in trouble, and were willing to help,” Arya shot back. “Perhaps I did not tell them how, explicitly.”

“Of course not,” Jon groaned, rolling his eyes.

The Tarly girl scrambled from her brother’s arms and leant out of the window.

“Please,” she whimpered. “Please, I am sure to die if you do not help.”

Her stomach wrenching at the terror on the young girl’s face, Brienne strolled forward and nodded reassuringly.

“As quickly as you can, tell me what is amiss,” she ordered firmly.

“My father wishes to make me wed a business partner of his. An old man, a Florent with yellow teeth! He hopes that someone mature will make me less wild, but I will surely die if were to wed that old goat!” young Talla sobbed.

“And you wish us to take you to the school with us?” Brienne concluded, catching on.

Sobbing and gasping, Talla nodded. “I can teach dancing,” she offered. “Or sewing or do anything you ask me to.” “Of course,” Jaime assured her, having resolved at once to help the girl.

“Arya, why on earth did you not tell us of this escapade?” Brienne glared at the young girl.

“Because you might have said no.” Arya shrugged. “Now get your things and hurry. Everything else can be sent on after you.”

The pint-sized Arya bustled to pair into the hallway and thrust their coats upon them. A wicked glint in his eye, Jaime leant down and retrieved the sword, gallantly passing one to Brienne.

“To fight off vengeful old men,” Jaime declared. “Just you always wanted.” He then leant forward and bruised Brienne’s lips with his own, breaking away only as his lungs had quite emptied of air. “And a kiss from my handsome lady knight, just as I always wanted.”

Gulping for air and ignoring the frozen Arya, Brienne managed to regain her composure and nodded.

“But let that be all for now,” she said. “For we have a maiden to protect.”


End file.
